The Wish List: Escape with the most hilarious and feel-good read of 2020!

by Sophia Money-Coutts

  Angus was Eugene’s ex-boyfriend, the second great love of his life after Shakespeare, he always said. They’d met while studying drama at university and had been together for twenty years, but not long after I started working at Frisbee, Angus moved to New York to direct a performance of Evita and they’d separated. He’d remained there since and was now considered one of Broadway’s top musical directors while, back in London, Eugene constantly auditioned for roles he never got.

  Barely a day went by when he didn’t mention Angus, as if a proud parent watching his offspring blossom from afar. He kept up with his shows, read his New York Times reviews out loud to me in the shop and occasionally emailed him to say congratulations. I was never sure if Angus replied to these, I didn’t like to ask. Still, Eugene was one of life’s sunbeams, a positive person who remained admirably upbeat in the face of these disappointments, so his enthusiasm towards Gwendolyn Glossop didn’t surprise me.

  ‘So you think I should definitely go and see this woman? It isn’t a bit… tragic? Or mad?’

  Eugene tutted. ‘Absolutely not. What have you got to lose?’ He turned back to me and held the duster high in the air. ‘Boldness be my friend.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Cymbeline, act one. And I think you should look upon this as an exciting opportunity.’ He spun to face me again. ‘Because without meaning one jot of offence, angel, I think my mother gets more action than you.’

  ‘Doesn’t your mother live in a retirement home?’

  ‘In Bournemouth, exactly my point.’

  I was about to object but heard Norris’s heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  He glanced from Eugene to me, tufty eyebrows raised. ‘You two all right up here?’

  ‘We are indeed,’ said Eugene. ‘I’m just advising our young colleague on matters of the heart.’

  Norris had been married decades ago to a lady called Shirley but now lived alone. On quiet days in the shop, Eugene and I sometimes speculated about his private life. Had Shirley run off with the postman, driven away by Norris’s gruffness? Had waking up beside that amount of ear hair become too much to bear? Had Shirley given up life in an untidy Wimbledon flat for a dashing younger man on the Costa Del Sol? Eugene’s dramatic nature meant he tended to get quite carried away with these speculations but we remained none the wiser. Norris wasn’t the sort to discuss anything emotional.

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ he said, waving his hands in the air as if protesting. ‘I just came up for the post.’

  I handed it over to him and mouthed ‘Shhhh!’ at Eugene. The fewer people who knew about my appointment with Gwendolyn, the better.

  The following Tuesday, I arrived at 117 Harley Street and was told by a receptionist to take the lift to the fourth floor.

  ‘Are there any stairs?’ I hated the jerkiness of lifts in old London buildings like this, clanking and creaking like a dodgy fairground ride.

  ‘Take the fire exit next to the lift,’ instructed the receptionist, not looking up from her magazine.

  I played Consequences as I walked up. If the steps were even, it would be a helpful hour, which made me feel less freakish for never having had a boyfriend. But what would it be if the stairs were odd? What was the worst outcome of this session? If they were odd numbers, I’d never have a relationship and I’d become one of those little old ladies you see shopping by themselves in the supermarket, hunched over a wheelie trolley and buying tins of fish paste for their solo suppers.

  The first flight had thirteen stairs and I felt a spasm of panic. The next two had eleven and the last nine. Disaster.

  I walked along a corridor which smelt of instant coffee and stopped at the door with a small sign that said ‘Gwendolyn Glossop, MS, Love Coach and Energy Healer.’

  I knocked.

  ‘Come i-hin!’ came a high-pitched voice.

  I pushed it open to find a salmon-pink room. Salmon-pink walls, salmon-pink curtains, salmon-pink sofa and armchair. On the sofa were four cushions – two shaped like red hearts and one which had the letters ‘LO’ on it beside another that said ‘VE’. Grim.

  Decorating a wooden dresser behind this sofa were several statues of naked women. My eyes slid along them. Nineteen in total, with rounded bottoms and pert breasts. Wooden statues, bronze statues, statues carved from stone, even a purple wax statue, although that one had started melting and was headless. On the opposite wall was a mural of clouds and classical figures in togas. It was as if I’d stumbled through the back of a wardrobe, from the clinical starkness of Harley Street into a deranged computer game.

  ‘Welcome, Florence,’ said Gwendolyn, pushing herself up from the armchair. She was a large woman wearing purple dungarees that fastened with buttons shaped like daisies. Silver earrings dangled from her ears and she had the sort of cropped haircut you get when you join the army. The tips of her eyelashes were coated with blue mascara and the look was completed with a pair of green Crocs.

  She pointed at a woman in the mural, a brunette whose toga had slipped off one bosom but not the other. ‘That’s Aphrodite, the goddess of sexual pleasure. Are you familiar with her?’

  ‘No, I don’t know her, er, work.’

  ‘Ah, never mind.’ We shook hands, a row of bangles dancing up and down Gwendolyn’s forearm, and she gestured at the sofa. ‘Please have a seat.’

  She reached for a pad of paper and a pen from a coffee table while I leant back against the cushions and tried to relax. All the pink made me feel like I was sitting in someone’s intestines.

  ‘And how are we today?’ Gwendolyn asked, glancing up from her pad with a smile.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Not nervous?’

  ‘No,’ I fibbed. This was mad. This room was mad. This woman was mad. Patricia was mad. I pretended to scratch my wrist so I could push up the cuff of my jumper and look at my watch: fifty-eight minutes to go.

  ‘I’m going to ask a few preliminary questions before we get stuck into the real work,’ said Gwendolyn, raising her chin and cackling before dropping it and becoming serious again. ‘Can you tell me why you’re here?’

  ‘Because I have a socially ambitious stepmother who thought it would be helpful, so I said I’d try this out so long as she never interrogated me about my love life again,’ I replied. I might as well be honest.

  Gwendolyn cackled again and scribbled a note. ‘And can you tell me about your relationship history?’

  ‘Not much to tell. There was someone briefly at university ten years ago. Very briefly. But that’s pretty much it.’

  ‘Nobody else?’ said Gwendolyn, her forehead rippling with concern.

  I picked at a scrap of cuticle on my thumb then met her gaze. ‘A few one-night things. But nothing more than that. I’d like to fall in love,’ I said, trying to sound casual, as if I’d just said I’d like a cup of tea. ‘Course I would. But the right person hasn’t come along.’

  ‘Mmm,’ murmured Gwendolyn, looking from me to her pad. She shifted in her armchair and crossed her right ankle over her left knee so a Croc dangled from her foot. She looked up and squinted, as if she was trying to see inside me, then back at the list. ‘Mmm, yes, what I think we need to do is clear your love blocks out. I can sense them. Your subconscious is very powerful. You’re stuck. Hurting. Lonely. Do you want to stay lonely, Florence?’

  But before I had a chance to reply and say I wasn’t lonely and, actually, I quite liked going to bed at whatever time I wanted, Gwendolyn ordered me to lie back on the sofa and close my eyes.

  ‘Across the whole thing?’

  ‘Yes, yes, stick your legs over the end. That’s it. Put a cushion under your head. There we go.’

  Resting my head on a heart-shaped cushion, I noticed a cherub painted on the ceiling. I closed my eyes to banish it, wondering how many minutes were left now.

  ‘I’ll light a candle to dispel the forces of darkness and then we’ll get going,’ she said. ‘Eyes closed.’

  I shut them as she started askin
g questions in a velvety voice. ‘What grievances are you hanging on to, Florence? What can you let go?’

  I thought about replying ‘trapped wind’ but suspected Gwendolyn wouldn’t find this funny. Then I smelt herbs so opened one eye again; she was circling her hands around my face without touching it, as if my head was a crystal ball.

  ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘It’s sage and frankincense oil for emotional healing. But forget the herbs. Close your eyes and think, who are you holding on to in your heart? Can you let them go?’

  The questions continued while Gwendolyn wafted her oily fingers above my face.

  ‘Set an intention for your healing. Ask yourself: what do I need right now to open my heart to the love I deserve?’

  I wondered what to have for supper when I got home. I was starving. Soup? The thought of ending a day with soup was depressing.

  ‘We need to break down the wall around your heart,’ she went on. ‘Imagine a bulldozer smashing that wall, Florence, opening the path to true intimacy.’

  A baked potato? No, it would take too long and I hated it when they weren’t cooked in the middle.

  ‘Now open your eyes and sit up, and we can make a start,’ said Gwendolyn. ‘I’ve cleared those blocks and you should be feeling clearer and calmer. Less defensive.’

  I opened my eyes feeling exactly as I had nine minutes earlier.

  Wiping her hands with a tissue, Gwendolyn explained that she wanted me to write a list.

  ‘A list? Like a shopping list?’

  Gwendolyn nodded, the silver teardrops swinging in her earlobes. ‘Exactly, my precious. Like a shopping list, except for what you want from a man, not Asda. Ha ha!’ Her mouth opened wide at her own joke before she was serious again. ‘What do you want in a man, Florence?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Because you need to ask the universe for it,’ she said solemnly. ‘These things don’t just fall into our laps. You need to manifest your desires and attract the right vibrations into your life, summon them to you.’ Gwendolyn stretched her arms in front of her and pulled them back as if playing a tug of war with these vibrations.

  ‘OK,’ I replied. I was going to play along with this mad hippie. Play along for the session then leave and tell Patricia that she was never, ever to interfere with my love life again.

  Gwendolyn tore a piece of paper from her pad and handed it to me. ‘Use a book to lean on.’

  I reached underneath the glass table for the nearest book, which had a silhouette of a cat on the front. The Power of the Pussy: How To Tame Your Man, said the title. I covered it quickly with my piece of paper. The power of the pussy indeed. Marmalade would be horrified.

  ‘Help yourself to a pen,’ went on Gwendolyn, ‘and I want you to write down the characteristics that are important to you so the universe can recognize them and deliver what you’re looking for.’

  ‘How many characteristics does the universe need?’

  ‘As many as you like, poppet,’ she replied, flourishing a hand in the air like a flamenco dancer. ‘But the more specific the better. Don’t just say “handsome”. The universe needs clear instructions. Write down “has all his own hair”. Don’t say “athletic”. Say “goes to the gym once or twice a week”. Remember, it’s your list. Your wish list for the universe to answer.’

  I wished she’d stop talking about the universe. I went quiet and blinked at my piece of paper. What to write? I couldn’t possibly take this seriously, but on the other hand, I had to write something to convince this nutter that I’d at least thought about it.

  After twenty minutes of sighing, chewing the biro, nearly swallowing the little blue stopper at the end of the biro, laughing to myself, closing my eyes and shaking my head before sighing again, I’d come up with a few suggestions. I totted them up and felt uneasy. That was fifteen. I needed one more to make it even. I gnawed the end of the biro once more and thought of a final addition.

  THE LIST

  –LIKES CATS.

  –INTERESTING JOB. NOT GOLF-PLAYING INSURANCE BORE LIKE HUGO.

  –BOTTOM AND SEXUAL ATHLETICISM OF JAMES BOND.

  –NICE MOTHER.

  –NO POINTY SHOES.

  –NO HAWAIIAN SHIRTS.

  –NO UMBRELLAS.

  –READS BOOKS. NOT JUST SPORTS BIOGRAPHIES.

  –NO REVOLTING BATHROOM HABITS. E.G. SKID MARKS.

  –AMBITIOUS.

  –ADVENTUROUS.

  –GOOD MANNERS. E.G. SAYS THANK YOU IF SOMEONE HOLDS THE DOOR OPEN FOR HIM.

  –ISN’T OBSESSED WITH INSTAGRAM OR HIS PHONE.

  –FUNNY.

  –ACTUALLY TEXTS ME BACK.

  –DOESN’T MIND ABOUT MY COUNTING.

  I handed the piece of paper to Gwendolyn who inspected it while I checked my watch. In twelve minutes, I could go home for supper, whatever it was. Eggs again? Could one overdose on eggs?

  ‘Well,’ said Gwendolyn, looking up. ‘You clearly listened to what I said about being specific. This line about James Bond, for instance…’

  I spread my hands in mock innocence. ‘You said it was a wish list. So I thought, why not? If I can truly put down any bottom I wanted, why not go for his?’

  The corners of Gwendolyn’s mouth tightened as she glanced back at the list. ‘What’s wrong with umbrellas?’

  ‘Not very manly,’ I said. I had a thing about this. Hugo never left the house without his umbrella. It seemed fussy and faint-hearted; you’d never catch Mr Rochester or Rhett Butler faffing about with an umbrella.

  ‘And you want someone who’s both ambitious and adventurous?’

  I nodded. Ambition was to guard against the sort of man whose dreams stopped at ‘golf club membership’ and someone with a spirit of adventure might encourage me to be braver, to venture further afield than south London.

  ‘Fine,’ she went on, ‘but you could jot down a few more personality characteristics. What about kindness, or generosity? And does he want children?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied, because I didn’t know. I had to find a boyfriend first and that seemed hard enough.

  ‘And what’s this about your counting?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘Just a… weird thing I do. Like a tick. I count things. In my head.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ mused Gwendolyn, narrowing her eyes at me as if I was the oddball in the room. ‘Well, what I’d like you to do is some deeper work over the next week or so. Really think about this list and finesse it.’ She held the piece of paper back out.

  ‘All right,’ I replied, taking it from her. ‘And then what? Do I need to find some sort of cauldron and burn it?’

  ‘You are naughty!’ said Gwendolyn, grinning and clapping her hands to her thighs. ‘No, darling, just leave it somewhere safe so you can come back to it at our next appointment.’

  ‘What next appointment?’

  ‘Your stepmother booked a package. Did she not tell you? We have another three to go.’

  I exhaled. Three more sessions in this Pepto-Bismol room. Three more interrogations with this giant fairy. But how to reply? I could hardly say, ‘Absolutely not, I’d rather skip naked through the streets of London.’

  She reached into her dungaree pocket and pulled out her phone. ‘Let’s see… I always think it best to allow at least a week between the first and second appointment, to allow you enough time to think about your list. So what about two weeks’ today? Same time? There’s a new moon that night so it’s wonderful timing.’

  I smiled back, my lips pressed in a straight line because otherwise I thought I might scream.

  And then, once I was standing back on the Harley Street pavement, I folded the list and slid it into the side pocket of my rucksack. The manifesting power of the universe indeed. What a load of absolute, Grade-A nonsense.

  Chapter Two

  LATER THAT WEEK, I was dealing with Mrs Delaney and didn’t notice the blond man loitering in the biography section. It was raining, which drove more people into the shop
since it was a peaceful place to pass time until the clouds moved. Unhurried. Relaxed. No assistant ever approached you in a bookshop and said, ‘Would you like to try a pair of heels with that?’ Customers could browse undisturbed while their coats dripped quietly on the Turkish rugs.

  Mrs Delaney had been visiting Frisbee Books for decades. She lived in a big house overlooking St Luke’s Church, a short wobble away on her walking stick, and liked to come in every week to discuss new gardening books. She was exceptionally keen on gardening (although she didn’t do it herself, she had a man called Cliff who did that), and Eugene and I took it in turns to deal with her. This morning it was my turn, so I was leafing Mrs Delaney through a new book about rewilded gardens. It wasn’t going well because she declared every photo of daisies and cow parsley ‘a disgrace’.

  ‘That’s even messier than the last!’ she said, as I reached the final page, a picture of a butterfly on a clump of grass. ‘Not for me,’ she said. ‘I’ll be off.’

  Mrs Delaney waved her stick in the air as a goodbye before tottering out into the rain. I stepped under the wooden beam separating fiction and non-fiction to slide the rewilding book back onto its shelf.

  ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you,’ said the man.

  I turned to help him, my automatic smile in place.

  ‘It’s only that I’m here to pick up a book my mother ordered.’

  My mouth fell open like a trapdoor but no words came out. It was his old-fashioned clothes that struck me at first. Over a white shirt he was wearing a pair of blue braces which fastened with little buttons to the top of his trousers. Then I stared at his face and wondered whether his pale blue eyes and almost invisible blond eyelashes meant he was Scandinavian.

  ‘She said she got a message saying it’s in,’ he persisted. ‘If you wouldn’t mind…’

  ‘Yes, sure, sorry,’ I said, shaking my head as if to wake myself up. He didn’t sound Scandinavian. He sounded very English. ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Elizabeth Dundee.’

  ‘OK, give me a second.’